


The Morning After

by days4daisy



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Drunk Night, Extra Treat, M/M, Misunderstandings, Morning After, Post-Star Wars: A New Hope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-22
Updated: 2016-10-22
Packaged: 2018-08-23 21:11:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8342917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/pseuds/days4daisy
Summary: Luke wakes to an insistent throb.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lefaym](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lefaym/gifts).



Maybe it starts when the music swells. Laughs and pumped fists. Shouts of jubilation, satisfied nods.

Maybe the medal of honor hangs heavy on Luke's neck. He drains his latest round of Zazque, thimble-sized glasses. Sweet like dessert, no bite. Maybe he doesn't feel the warmth on his cheeks.

He's smiling at something he's been told by a man. Didn't catch his name, but he should have. Every name in this room is important. Fighters, all of them. Rebels who sacrificed personal safety for the cause. Luke is only a small part of this war.

Luke's jacket feels heavy. He leaves it on, a bead of sweat down his neck.

The man murmurs in his ear. Luke tips to hear him, or maybe to feel. It's been a long time since a voice shivered on his skin. Low, lively, and close.

Late night revelers linger on the floor. Leia, Luke notes, is no longer among them. Always the politician, she has retired to commune with the leadership council. Tonight, after the Rebellion's greatest triumph to date, she is already thinking about the next battle.

Luke should be too. The Rebellion's cause is his now. But his thoughts are tied to the voice in his ear. How he wishes it belonged to someone else. 

Maybe a competing murmur tickles his other ear. "This guy bothering you, kid?"

"I look bothered?" Luke asks, brow lifted.

Han hands him a fresh shooter. His grin is easy, but he pulls Luke too close. The man whose name Luke should remember shakes his head and disappears into the throng.

Maybe Luke's head sags against Han's shoulder. "You all right?" Han's mouth, inches from his skin.

"I'm great," Luke assures him with lifted glass.

Han clanks it with his own. "Same here."

Maybe they drink, Han's arm around Luke's shoulders, Luke's restless fingers under his shirt.

Maybe. Or maybe not. Luke doesn't remember.

***

Luke wakes to an insistent throb. His medal of honor sits warm on his belly, sandwiched between his body and the mattress. A brown quilt covers him, ribbed corduroy. Luke squints his eyes open but thinks better of it. The room is too bright, slim panels spilling light from the outside halls. The walls are a patchwork of gravel-gray. 

Luke spies a glass of water beside the bed, on a stack of drawered cubbies with rusted metal handles. He reaches for the glass, but there is an arm around his waist. A hand cups his side, broad palm on bare skin. Fingers scritch his ribcage lazily.

A leg shifts inside Luke's calf, warm with a light layer of hair. Luke tries to concentrate on the pounding between his ears; the sick churn in his stomach.

A groggy voice mumbles, "Aw hell." The arm around Luke starts to retreat, but pauses. After a moment, it falls back down. Fingers knead into Luke's neck. "Hey, kid," Han says.

"Hey," Luke replies, trying to match his tone. He turns and regrets it. The walls and ceiling tilt like kaleidoscope panes. 

Han looks amused and concerned. "You all right?" Three words sound like one, laced together in a sleep-worn rumble. 

"No," Luke tells him, a furrow between his brows.

Han finds this funny. "Had no idea you were such a fish," he marvels. "You'd put down the best barmen, kid." His medal also hangs around his neck. Polished gold against bare stomach.

"Fish don't drown in the morning." Luke tucks his head against an arm. "I feel awful."

"Look it too," Han offers helpfully. "But hey, not every day you get to be the hero, huh?"

Han's eyes are wet from his own over-indulgence. Hair mussed and parted in finger-sized waves. Luke's fingers, Luke realizes. A red mark swells on Han's neck. Pink stripes are etched into his shoulders. Luke stretches. It doesn't surprise him when his back hurts. His arms too, and his legs. Disappointment hits before he can mask the reaction.

Han is too perceptive to miss it. His eyes narrow, then widen. "You don't remember a thing, do you?"

Luke shakes his head. His headache drills between his eyes.

"Hey, Luke." Han looks uncomfortable. "Look, I'm sorry, pal. I should have known you were a little out of it. I mean, we all..." He chews off the words. "Crazy night, I guess."

"Yeah." Luke closes his eyes. Last night's band whistles over a black hole where his memories should be. Red liquid in silver thumb-shooters, sweet like the bean cakes back home. Han's arm around his shoulders. Luke's hand under his shirt. He was warm. "Wish I could remember."

"Yeah well, you might. Remember, I mean. Who knows." Han's eyes are on the ceiling, lip nursed between his teeth.

Luke frowns. "I'm not mad, Han."

"course you're not." Han's voice is brusque. "Too damn crazy to be mad."

"I want to remember," Luke insists. 

"Heh. Wasn't even that good!" Han's hair slouches across his forehead. From this angle, Luke can better see the swollen welt on his neck, just above the collarbone. 

"Oh." Luke searches for more, but the words don't come. He blows out a breath, concentrating on his own heartbeat; a sluggish throb between his chest and the mattress. 

It must have been terrible. Clumsy and sloppy. Han won't think twice about it after this morning. A drop in the bucket. On to something better.

"I don't _mean_ it wasn't that good," Han snaps out of nowhere. "We were both...hell, we were all nuts as looncats. Even Chewie!"

Luke is grateful for the diversion. He lifts his head, blinking to make Han's face stay still. "Wookiees can't get drunk. Can they?"

"Sure they can." Han smirks. "It ain't pretty, let me tell you. Who knows where I'll find the big lug today. He won't be in a good mood, I know that much."

"I'll keep my distance," Luke assures, smiling back. It feels good to smile. Like when he heard Han's voice jump onto his comm at the Death Star. Or in the celebration after, embracing when the battle was won. He could feel Han's excitement thrumming, arms wound tight.

This is good enough, Luke tells himself. It was stupid to think anything else could...

"So, we're good, right?"

"Why wouldn't we be good?" Luke asks.

"Just want us to be ok, kid. That's all."

Luke props his heavy head on a hand. Bodies separated by inches, the warmth of Han's leg so close. "I'm not a kid, you know," Luke bristles. "You call me that all the time. But I'm not! I can make my own decisions. I don't need you to make them for me."

"Take it easy." Han's mouth tilts. "Guy shows some concern and gets blasted for it. I don't want us to be weird, ok?"

"I mean, sure it's weird." He's surprised when Han's face falls, wide eyes and an open mouth. Luke rolls his eyes at the reaction. "You just told me I'm no good!"

"What? No, I- Hey, I said 'we' were no good!" Han balks. "Didn't even get to the best part!"

Luke frowns at the words, and the context of their undress. They don't fit. "But-"

"Got here, stumbled around. Your damn pants have all these buttons, never seen so many buttons in my life! And you kept laughing, like you were having a grand ol' time." Han glares. "Must've fallen off. Woke up, that was that."

So they didn't...? "Oh, I don't know." Luke tries to hide his smile. "Doesn't sound so bad."

"You don't even remember!" Han jabs an accusing finger in his direction.

"You're right, I guess."

Luke carefully rolls to his other side. This time, he's able to grab the water from beside the bed. He curls with the glass, sipping to keep from spilling. The water is lukewarm, but his tongue is sandpaper. His stomach rolls, hungry and nauseous.

Han takes the glass from him. Without asking, he drains the rest. "Not even cold," Han grumbles. The empty glass is set against the bed's slate-black headboard.

"It's fine." Luke catches himself chuckling.

Han still looks confused. "So, when you say 'doesn't sound so bad'..."

"I'm not spelling it out for you." Luke isn't sure where the sudden burst of confidence comes from. But he feels it brightening his eyes and turning his mouth upward.

Confusion becomes a smirk. "Oh, you won't, huh?" Han sits up to meet him.

Luke's eyes stray to Han's mouth. Han knows, proudly emphasized with a lick.

"Not a chance." Luke manages to keep his voice even.

Han grips his chin; thumb in the cleft, index under the jaw. Luke swallows but doesn't move. "Think you just did." Han decides.

His kiss is soft but leading. A gentle nudge. Luke tilts his head at Han's urging. It's quick. And it works.

Han eases back, forehead touching Luke's. Eyes curious, waiting on him. Luke sighs. "Still feel pretty rotten."

Han snorts. "You're not kidding." He's smiling as he shifts to the edge of the bed. The quilt clumps around his midsection.

He spins free, legs off the bed. The fabric dips lower, the start of his ass swelled underneath. "Don't look," Han says, thumb hiked in the opposite direction.

Luke raises a brow. "What, now you're modest?" The order has the opposite effect, his eyes straying to new skin.

"Gotta save something for next time, don't I? Since you don't remember and all."

Luke sits back against the headboard; the empty glass thuds to its side. His mouth curls. "What makes you think there's a next time?"

Han's face glows with promise. "Oh, there's a next time," he says.

Luke scoffs. But, as asked, he turns away. Han's bare feet pad across the floor. Clothes shift on, a groan of discomfort. Luke bites his lip with the effort of not stealing one last look

Han is right, though. There will be a next time, and Luke plans to remember every last detail.

*The End*


End file.
